


Sparring Partners

by Euphoric_Mandelbulb



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Agender Crossover Character, Arthur Being Quite Wise, Awesome Waitstaff, Banter, Companionable Snark, F/M, Families of Choice, Flirting, Humor, MJN Air Is A Family, Marriage, Multi, OJS Air Is A Family, Other, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Service Work Isn't Demeaning, Shout-outs, Weddings, Weird Presents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 01:44:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4588302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euphoric_Mandelbulb/pseuds/Euphoric_Mandelbulb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Third time's the charm.<br/>(Carolyn doesn't see why it should matter that this is Herc's fifth time: officially because “no-one cares what you think, Herc”, unofficially because – to her mind - “technically it's his first time, since the pillock spent most of his life completely mistaken on one vital point”.)</p><p>Yet Another Wedding Fic, hopefully at least somewhat original. (It does, after all, contain an Arthur and a Douglas. Note, however, that Theresa is merely phoning in at the end.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sparring Partners

**Author's Note:**

> Set shortly before the epilogue of “Zurich”. Canon-compliant.
> 
> Rated T for innuendo, flirting, and canon-level swearing.
> 
> Not beta'd, because I have no beta :-( Does not need Brit-picking, because I *am* British :-)

“Are – are you _sure_ you don't want me to -”  
  
“ _Yes_ , you ridiculous little man. Your frequent-flyer miles are valid for several trips yet, within reason, so no sense in trying to put a payment through a half-overhauled database. Now go and get changed, if you haven't seen sense regarding the unimportance of this appointment. I can't for the life of me fathom why you even felt the need to be present, unless it's your devotion to paperwork and Procedures.”  
  
Martin didn't bother to argue – _again_ – with Carolyn on this point. He'd _eventually_ realised, during his years at MJN, just how much fuss and bother could be avoided by simply going straight ahead with one's own way of doing things and treating that as the status quo. (Even _Arthur_ had realised this before Martin did.)  
“Well, I - I couldn't disappoint Arthur, could I?”  
  
“Not if you tried. I think you're just here for the posh dinner afterwards – you didn't swap your salary for captaincy again, did you?”  
  
Martin laughed. “ _That_ , I, um... Oskar Bider probably _is_ the sort of person who'd make a deal like that, but I've learned my lesson: food and, er, no-housemates-ness outweighs a shiny hat.”  
  
“Those students must have been on the hefty side, then. Now _go_ and get changed, before Dave monopolises the Gents' again. That stupid _engineer_ refuses to endure a little indignity in order to, well, get to the _bottom_ of his problem.”

  
*******

 

“Of _course_ you're the pageboy, Sk- Martin!”  
  
“Arthur, I'm _thirty-six_ .”  
  
“So?”  
  
“So, there's a reason why the term isn't page _-man_ .”  
  
“Or, indeed, simply _page_ ,” said Douglas. “Although that in itself usually indicates a youth – originally a trainee knight between the ages of seven and fourteen, before he became a squire...”  
  
“Shut up, Douglas. Arthur, I'm just a _guest_ , and I'm fine with that. I'm very grateful for your invitation – especially since I wouldn't have _known_ about the wedding otherwise -”  
  
“Martin, you do realise that Carolyn's _plan_ was for Arthur to let slip and Herc to back him up? She couldn't invite you outright without dropping her whole 'just-an-appointment' facade.”  
  
“...on that note, Arthur, I don't think your Mum _wants_ a pageb- page.”  
  
“You've got to have _something_ to do, S- Martin. Otherwise you'll be the only person in the whole room who's just standing there the whole time, and then you'll feel silly and go all red and -”  
  
“Yes, _thank you_ , Arthur, I get the picture. But I'll be -”  
  
“I suppose you _could_ be the bridesmaid... your suit does match rather nicely with Carolyn's.”  
  
“ _As I was saying_ , Arthur, I'll be one of the witnesses. So you don't need to worry; it's all _fine_ .”  
  
“ _What_ ?” Douglas snapped. “Why am _I_ suddenly not -”  
  
“Oh, you're a witness too, Douglas,” Arthur explained.  
  
“...Arthur, you're the _best man_ . I think that comes with a side order of 'signatory'.”  
  
“Normally yes, but I'm not allowed to be.”  
  
“Why not, and _who_ exactly has forbidden you?” growled Douglas.  
  
“The register people here said that witnesses have to understand about marriage, and I talked all about how it's a way for people to show that they love each other for real and not just because it's new and interesting, and they want to stay together as long as possible because everything's better when the other person's part of it or at least there to talk with about it, and they're pretty sure they'll never get bored of each other or start hating each other, and being together is worth putting up with all the annoying things because they're part of the other person like a rug, so - ”  
  
“A _rug_ , Arthur?”  
  
“Yeah, you know, that saying about how you can't take out the bits of the pattern you don't like because then the whole rug would unravel. Anyway, I said all of that stuff about marriage to the register people, but they said that what witnesses really need to understand is all the legal-y stuff about marriage, even though I'm pretty sure that's mostly for if they get divorced which Mum and Herc won't, and all those weird legal ways of saying things were _really_ confusing even with Mum and Herc explaining, so apparently I'm not capable or something.”  
  
“Excuse me a moment,” murmured Douglas, before barging through a “Staff Only” door.  
  
A minute or so later, the door flew open again.  
  
“You unfeeling bloody _jobsworth_ ! How _dare_ you call him -” Douglas noticed the open door - “any of _that_ ! I honestly don't know whether to be amused or _frightened_ by the fact that a _machine_ like you is employed as a registrar!”  
  
“I'm sorry, sir,” said the small neat woman standing in the doorway, “but it's not my decision. Mr Shappey is legally lacking in capacity, as judged by professionals. Now please calm down, or I'll have to call security.”  
  
Douglas took a deep breath, and Martin whimpered slightly.  
  
“One day,” Arthur said to the registrar, “you'll realise that you were wrong, probably about _loads_ of people not just me, and then you'll feel _really_ embarrassed.” He looked genuinely sorry for her.  
  
The registrar blinked, with the expression common to most people who'd just been treated to one of Arthur's sudden pearls of wisdom, then shut the door.  
  
“You can't reason with machines, I'm afraid, Arthur,” said Douglas, recovering himself admirably fast. “They're completely incapable of comprehending anything outside their programming.”  
  
“Douglas,” said Martin thoughtfully, “I seem to recall a conversation about whether a certain Captain was in fact a prototype robot pilot with a lot of bugs in his programming. You presented, as evidence for your hypothesis, the fact that said Captain's mental processes seemed to be entirely devoted to aviation.”  
  
“... and your point is?”  
  
“It didn't stop _you_ from trying to broaden _my_ horizons, and look at me now.”  
  
“... _touché_ . And it would be highly disturbing if _Arthur_ gave up on someone at the first hurdle. The lad gave _Gordon Shappey_ the benefit of the doubt for thirty-three years, after all.”  
  
“You can't decide if someone's brilliant or horrible straight away, Douglas. Isn't that what you were just saying to the registration woman? Anyway, I'm _really_ happy being Best Man, and me being banned from witnessing means that Sk- Martin gets a job to do at the wedding, so actually everything's fine _without_ you needing to do something clever!”  
  
Douglas looked slightly abashed. “That's... entirely your decision, Arthur. Anyway, I've done a few other _clever_ things to make this wedding go with a swing -”  
  
“Oh, _no_ ,” Martin sighed. “Douglas, _please_ , can't you give it a rest for just one -”  
  
“Nothing _major_ , Martin! Just a few little... enhancements. No sugar bricks, I promise.”  
  
Martin winced, hands twitching nervously. “Oh _god_ ... erm, Arthur, do you have the rings?”  
  
“No, S- Martin -”  
  
“OH _GOD_ !”  
  
“- because that's Douglas' job. That way, he doesn't get bored and I can't lose them.”  
  
“... right. Good. That's, that's, um, g- _sensible_ . Very sensible of, um, whichever.”  
  
“It was Herc's idea,” Arthur said. “So were the rings, actually. Mum kept pretending not to want rings at all, but in the end he said that she had loads of gold wire lying around anyway so they just needed to get it flattened and bent a bit, and she couldn't think of a good answer so they did.”  
  
“...Douglas, do _you_ have the rings? The _real_ rings, not childrens' plastic ones or joke fake ones which turn your finger green or -”  
  
“ _Yes_ , Martin. Here, feel the ring box. Heavy for its size, isn't it?”  
  
“... have you hidden something in there? It's not going to explode, is it?”  
  
“Not in the slightest. There shan't be so much as a cracker-snap to mark its opening.”  
  
“What _have_ you hidden inside, then? I notice you didn't deny _that_ .”  
  
“Nothing destructive, noisy, gruesome, nor overly disruptive. It's actually rather appropriate -”  
  
“Confetti, then? A party-popper of some sort?”  
  
“Not quite. If you really want to master this schtick, Martin, you do need to put in a little extra research.”  
  
“Oh, _god_ .”  
  
“Chaps, shush! They're here!” Arthur interrupted, pointing frantically out of the window at the familiar racing-green Mercedes.  
  
As Carolyn and Herc walked in, the former looking smug and the latter picking the remains of his buttonhole rose out of his jacket, the sound of _Here Comes The Bride_ on piano filled the room.  
  
“ _Douglas Richardson, take off that tie before I make you eat it!_ ” roared the flushing bride; Douglas merely began to sing along to the tune he was coaxing out of his musical keyboard tie.  
  
Herc joined in, at which point Douglas immediately fell silent and dropped his tie. Herc smiled smugly.  
  
“Mum,” Arthur chirped, “here's your bouquet! You forgot to get one, so I got it for you – I hope you like it, I know you didn't want anything big and fancy to happen today so I specially looked for a little but pretty one.”  
  
The bouquet _was_ unusually tasteful for Arthur – a small bunch, more like a posy, of three colours of bluebells with some violets and a few interwoven strands of trailing ivy. (Having blown his life savings on ice-lollies and surprisingly-essential carbon-fibre brake-pads, Arthur hadn't been able to afford orchids.) Carolyn accepted it with as much grace as she dared; the registrar stepped up, and the ceremony began.

  


*******

  


“I'm sorry, I'll need to see proof of nationality before I can continue,” said the registrar.  
  
“I _beg_ your pardon?” the happy couple said in unintentional unison.  
  
“We're required to keep an eye out for... marriages of convenience, you understand, and I'm afraid I've noticed multiple danger signs.”  
  
“Such as?” Herc asked hurriedly, before Carolyn could finish drawing breath to roar.  
  
“Well, Ms Knapp-Shappey is displaying very little emotional engagement with the ceremony -”  
  
“Because it's incredibly boring!” Carolyn snapped. “And not improved in the slightest by your droning delivery. You sound worse than a sat-nav.”  
  
“- and according to our records from the registration of intent, her birth certificate _was_ somewhat unclear: under Father's Occupation, it seemed to say _Chieftain_ ?”  
  
“It says _Confectioner_ ; you were _wilfully_ misreading, you stupid -”  
  
“Shall we get on?” Herc suggested, fishing out their passports from his pocket.

 

***

  


“With this ring -”  
  
Herc opened the box, and was gently hit in the eye by a small rubber-band butterfly which then managed half a circuit of the room before dropping like a stone.  
  
Douglas sighed. “Damn. I had such high hopes for that thing.”  
  
Arthur obligingly wound up the butterfly and let it go; it shot up to the ceiling and became entangled in the chandelier.  
  
“...sorry, Douglas.”  
  
“Not to worry. It was only a quid, and evidently not worth that. Oh well, at least it's a proper wedding now – can't have a wedding without anyone crying.”  
  
Herc rolled his eyes, which in actuality were barely watering at all, while Carolyn swatted Douglas over the head with her bouquet.  
  
“And at least this has actually come in useful. Well done, dear heart.”  
  
“And thus does the day _finally_ gain sufficient rarity value to become thoroughly cemented in all our memories.”  
  
“My passport and brake pads, Douglas,” Arthur reminded him proudly.  
  
“It's still one of only _two_ such occasions.”

  


*******

  


Carolyn strode out of the register office and carelessly slung her bouquet aside as if throwing away rubbish; the gesture must have been more controlled than it appeared, because the flowers landed _exactly_ in the path of a passing bus' wheels. Douglas and Martin both tried (with differing levels of success) to conceal their relief from Arthur, who was eventually mollified by Martin's suggestion that the bus driver counted as having caught the bouquet.  
  
Herc's expression, upon seeing what Martin had managed to achieve in the brief interval while the registrar had been quibbling over passport stamps and old visas, was captured forever by three separate phone cameras. It wasn't just the tins tied to the back of the Mercedes, or the fluorescent-pink _JUST MARRIED_ banner; it was the fact that _Martin Crieff_ of all people must have picked the lock in order to thoroughly coat the seats with confetti.  
  
“I had to pick the lock on my old van a few times, when it jammed,” Martin said by way of explanation.  
  
“Oh, is that what I was supposed to do when that happened?” asked Arthur. “I just put in some WD-40.”  
  
“...Arthur, have you had any experimental surgery recently? Possibly first tested on a laboratory mouse?” asked Douglas.  
  
“No, why?”  
  
“Just checking...”  
  
While Carolyn and Herc were scraping confetti into the footwells (to avoid a littering fine), Arthur led the pilots round to his ghastly old car (still a horrible colour, still stinking of duffel-coats).  
  
“Okay, which of you wants to sit in the front?” he asked.  
  
“I assume that would be me?” said Douglas. “After all, if I sit in the back, I'll block the view through the back window.”  
  
“No, _no_ !” wailed Martin. “I _definitely_ deserve a turn in the front by _now_ !”  
  
“But Martin, _I'm_ the Captain.”  
  
“Douglas, _seriously_ , that was _five years_ ago!”  
  
“That may be a sizeable proportion of _your_ life, oh _Padawan_ , but to a _mature_ man like myself it's no time at all.”  
  
“Douglas, you're being _ridiculous_ !”  
  
“ _Am_ I? _Gosh_ . Perhaps it's a side-effect of being the Captain?”  
  
“Right, that's it!” snapped Arthur, with distressing similarity to Carolyn. “Since you're both acting like children, you can both sit in the back. _Like children_ !”  
  
“But, Arthur -”  
  
“Come _on_ -”  
  
“Driver picks the shotgun, and I pick _neither_ of you. Now get in the back or get a taxi!”

*******

**  
**  
The restaurant was, of course, a steakhouse. Much to Carolyn's annoyance, however, they did a rather nice fancy salad; she did her best to compensate for this via carefully-choreographed consumption of her 18oz steak, but the loss of ground was clear enough that Herc merely smirked knowingly and parodied her with his pinenuts.  
  
“I don't get it, Douglas,” sighed Martin, ignoring the juvenile display beside him. “We both ordered the _exact_ same steak. So _how_ is yours about five times better?”  
  
“I wouldn't go so far as to say _five_ times... three, maybe.”  
  
“Mine's full of gristle, burnt to ashes in one corner, _stupidly_ tough, the fibres keep changing direction so it's practically impossible to cut, and there's a weird _thing_ in the middle - look!” Martin gingerly poked the revolting purple patch with the tip of his knife.  
  
“It is _not_ full of gristle, it's _marbled_ with fat which keeps the meat tender - and the meat _is_ tender, you're just used to processed meat where the fibres and fat are barely detectable; speaking of the fibres, they change in direction for biological reasons, hence they're actually the same in mine. The thinner tip of your steak has been _crisped_ , not burnt – you're _very_ lucky the chef didn't hear that. That weird thing, I will grant you, is disgusting and might indicate that the steak came from a sickly cow. You should probably complain.”  
  
“...please tell me you're winding me up.”  
  
“Is this my wind-up face?”  
  
“ _Every_ face is potentially your wind-up face.”  
  
“True: I could have made a _killing_ as a poker pro, were it not for my lack of the necessary initial funds for high-stakes games. Early fatherhood will do that. Anyway, that's beside the point; I'm not winding you up, Martin. _Especially_ not about the weird thing. Play that up for all it's worth, see how much of a discount you can get for us.”  
  
“...can we swap plates and you complain? You're better at this.”  
  
“No. Neither of us is paying for this, so it's ideal practise for you, Squire.”  
  
“I suppose _you're_ the _Lord_ of... um... Manipulation?”  
  
“ _Misrule_ , I think. The Lord of Misrule, in mediaeval Christmas tradition, was the appointed person in charge of revelries. Rather suits me, don't you think?”  
  
“You certainly mis-rule the plane, I bet – eh, Herc?... Herc?... Herc!”  
  
Herc didn't respond, being preoccupied with a variant on a staring contest (first to look away from the other's plate loses). Martin waited a little longer, then shrugged and turned back to Douglas (who was whispering, “Bueller?... Bueller?... Bueller?”, because some openings just _can't_ be ignored).  
  
“So what do – are you all right, Douglas?”  
  
“Hmm? Yes, fine. Go on, get the waiter's attention.”  
  
“... I can't.”  
  
“What do you _mean_ , you _can't_ ?”  
  
“I'm about half the size of everyone else at this table, _and_ I'm the least handsome. The waiter won't be looking in my direction, and if I wave or anything I'll be firmly ignored for being a prat.”  
  
“...did you just call _Arthur_ handsome?” asked Douglas in amazement.  
  
“ _No_ , no... just _slightly_ closer to handsome than I can ever hope to be.”  
  
“Switzerland seems to suit you, Martin – your face isn't half so pinched, nor your hair so bristly. Must be the joy of living somewhere so orderly.”  
  
“Ha ha _ha_ , Douglas. My face still looks like I stole it from a horse, I still have to keep my hair buzzed down so it doesn't go Einstein, and I _still_ have sodding _warts_ .”  
  
“...I'd say your appearance is probably the most _striking_ out of the five of us. You might at least be able to draw attention through sheer curiosity value.”  
  
“So I'm a circus sideshow now, am I?”  
  
“Martin, stop stalling and _get the bloody waiter_ .”  
  
Before Martin could glance round, however, their waiter appeared at his side with a beatific smile. “How can I help you, sir?”  
  
“Er, er, er...” It took Martin a few seconds to recover from the shock of not having to hold eye contact with another human being after all. “I, erm... what's this on my steak, please?” He tried to sound outraged, but barely even managed “surprised”.  
  
“That shouldn't be there, sir,” said the waiter calmly. “I'll bring you a replacement at once.” The offending dish was swept up and borne away to the kitchen in what appeared to be a single, boneless movement, mirrored mere moments later by the swift and unobtrusive arrival of a fresh steak complete with replacement salad, after which the waiter vanished almost as though absorbed into the wall.  
  
“My, _my_ ,” purred Douglas, still staring at the waiter's last known location. “Now _that's_ grace under pressure.”

*******

  
  
“...why _cheese_ , dear heart?”  
  
“You both like cheese, this one's safe for vegetarians, there's enough of it for the two of you to share but it's different between the outside and the middle so you can still have fun arguing over the best bits, the nettles on it don't sting any more, and also it _really_ sounds like pirate cheese - Cornish _Yaaargh_ !”  
  
“Arthur... that's _inspired_ ,” said Herc, once he finally regained the power of speech.  
  
“Oh, phew! Brilliant!”  
  
“My turn, my turn!” called Martin, his unnecessary volume betraying his tipsiness. “The big one's from me, and the little one's from -” he giggled, “Her Serene Highness Princess Theresa Gustava Bonaventura _von und zu_ Liechtenstein, who sends her apologies for her unavoidable absence due to various unforeseen consequences of the King's most recent school report.”  
  
“Yes, well done, Martin. Truly, you are a champion reciter of long dreary passages. Now shut up and pass those over.”  
  
Martin tried to lean further across the table, and succeeded only in making himself feel rather sick. Herc took pity on him and handed the presents across the gap to Carolyn.  
  
“...a wok. I see. Any particular reason _why_ ?”  
  
“Crieff family rules forbid giving of toasters,” Martin muttered into the tabletop.  
  
“Sounds rather poetic,” chuckled Douglas. “Tell us about it once you've recovered from your self-inflicted Heimlich manoeuvre.”  
  
Martin whined pathetically. (Their waiter appeared briefly in the kitchen doorway, gave him an assessing glance, evidently decided that Martin would recover on his own, and disappeared once more. Only Douglas noticed.)  
  
“And... oh, and there was me hoping she'd balance out your lack of imagination.” Carolyn held up a pair of treble-clef earrings and a matching pair of cufflinks.  
  
“'S for work... if you can't wear your rings in case they go down the drain or get pinched as a Customs bribe.”  
  
“ _Oh_ ,” Carolyn said more softly. “I... suppose that's very sensible. Do... do thank her for me, Martin.”  
  
There was an affirmative-sounding groan in reply.  
  
“While Martin's abdomen rebounds – and I realise it's an unfamiliar journey so it might take a while – here's _my_ present, which I believe should lead nicely to the next stage of the process.” Douglas finally tore his eyes away from the kitchen doorway, and held out what appeared to be a fairly rounded present but turned out to have numerous pointy bits cunningly concealed by skilled wrapping. (Douglas had, of course, made sure to pass it to Herc.)  
  
“This isn't going to spray me with something ghastly when I open it, is it?” Herc held Douglas' present gingerly, at arm's length, trying to angle it towards Douglas himself rather than Carolyn.  
  
“Herc, _honestly_ , what do you _take_ me for? I have _style_ !”  
  
Herc raised an eyebrow, but warily unwrapped the present.  
  
“... what is it?”  
  
“Isn't it obvious? It does state its own purpose quite clearly.”  
  
“... _is_ it a toast-rack, or am I being rather foolish?”  
  
“It _is_ a toast-rack, and you're _incredibly_ foolish for not working that out sooner.”  
  
“ _Douglas_ ,” Carolyn sighed, “ _why_ have you given us a toast-rack which spells out the word TOAST? ”  
  
“A toast-rack because I'm a traditionalist, which spells out the word TOAST because ordinary toast-racks are boring. And also in case _Martin_ gave you the ordinary sort. Rather a pity he didn't, really: would have been fun to see his face when my present ripped the -”  
  
“Oh, I just got it!” said Arthur. He stood up, tapped his glass with his fork, then looked very surprised as it went flying and banana daiquiri spilt in all directions. Their waiter appeared at once, accompanied by a little cleaners' trolley. Arthur stepped towards the mess and reached for a scrubbing-brush.  
  
“Never mind that, Arthur,” Herc reassured him, “it's fine – _Arthur_ , they're being _paid_ to clean it up, it's all right to leave it. Give your speech, please, I've been looking forward to it.”  
  
Arthur smiled gratefully, and pulled out his cue-cards (comb-bound, at Martin's urging, to avert that old cliché of the cards being dropped halfway through the speech and mixed up out of order).  
  
“Ahem. Dear Mum and Herc.”  
(A pause of several seconds while Arthur wrestled the first card over the stiff binding-comb.)  
“I have asked us all.”  
(Flip.)  
“To gather together here.”  
(Flip.)  
“Today because you are get.”  
(Flip.)  
“Ting married at last, which is.”  
(Flip.)  
“Brilliant because you have both.”  
(Flip.)  
“Been really lucky to find some.”  
(Flip.)  
“One you truly love, after.”  
(Flip.)  
“Ages of being wrong about the.”  
(Flip.)  
“Sort of people who might be.”  
(Flip.)  
“That person, but now you are.”  
(Flip.)  
“Both past those sad years and.”  
(Flip.)  
“Can enjoy the rest of them, al.”  
(Flip.)  
“Though you wasted a lot of.”  
(Flip.)  
“Time being silly about it in differ.”  
(Flip.)  
“Ent ways, but at last you.”  
(Flip.)  
“'ve both been sensible for five.”  
(Flip.)  
“Minutes and can now be.”  
(Flip.)  
“Truly happy, in the best.”  
(Flip.)  
“Way which happens when you.”  
(Flip.)  
“'ve been together for long.”  
(Flip.)  
“Enough that it's more.”  
(Flip.)  
“Like a bath moment than.”  
(Flip.)  
“A moonlight moment. So three.”  
(Flip.)  
“Cheers for Mum and Herc! Hip, hip -”  
  
“Hooray!” chorused Douglas and Martin weakly, almost drowned out by Arthur. Drinks were shoved towards the middle of the table, then waved around slightly until they actually clinked.  
  
As Carolyn began to lecture Arthur on why she absolutely had _not_ been at _all_ silly at _any_ time, Douglas hurriedly spun round, and to his relief found their waiter still there (brushing the freshly-scrubbed carpet pile back into place).  
“So,” Douglas began, “what's a born butler like you doing in a job like this?” He seasoned the second half of the sentence with just the right amount of self-parody, and accompanied it with his most refined flirtatious smile.  
  
The waiter glanced up, the usual professional smile this time deepened and legitimised by pleasant surprise. “Not a lot of call for butlers in this day and age, sir.”  
  
“Hence why I said 'a _job_ like this',” Douglas clarified, with an extra hint of smirk. “You could run this place yourself with one hand tied behind your back, why settle for waiting tables?”  
  
“Financial barriers, sir, as with so many things,” said the waiter, evenly but with a wry half-smile. “And the experience of directly serving a range of people _is_ valuable.”  
  
“As is the ability to do so to such high standards. You're utterly wasted here – I _would_ recommend you to my CEO as a potential flight attendant, but frankly it'd be much the same as your current job, with the addition of restricted space and physical obstacles to the sense of taste. Besides, the position of resolver-of-intractables is already filled by yours truly, as is that of provider-of-obscurities.”  
  
“Congratulations, sir.” Was there a hint of wistfulness there? “This job will do for the moment, I assure you.”  
  
“So you wouldn't be interested in the details of a few people who _might_ know of someone needing an assistant for their super-PA? You know, those people who can arrange for _anything_ , anywhere, anytime – have you seen _The Devil Wears Prada_ ?”  
  
“Eight times, sir.” Yes, _definitely_ wistful now.  
  
“Well, it's pretty much that sort of thing, but with an extra smidgen of Internet since we're now living in the future. I did consider it as an option once or twice, but it's not really _my_ style – too _bound_ by the whims of others, and indeed to one place. I prefer a little more... _flexibility_ .”  
  
Yes, the _doubles entendres_ were getting through – pupils dilating, carotid pulsing just a little faster... a glance upwards through eyelashes! Success was in sight!  
  
“Surely the fulfilment of a person or household's every whim and fancy provides one with absolute control, sir? The servant thus becomes the foundation, without which the entire edifice collapses.”  
  
“Takes a _very_ special sort of person to accomplish that, I should think.” With a flourish, Douglas produced the list of contact details from behind his back (his own written at the bottom); at the waiter's raise of a shapely eyebrow, he held out his other hand to display the ring-mounted pencil lead. “I always keep one of these in my pocket: easiest way to always have a pencil _on hand_ .”  
  
That one earned him an actual chuckle, mellow and dignified yet very real. The waiter took the paper from Douglas' hand, fingers lingering for an entirely deliberate moment. “Your name, sir? They're bound to ask how I heard of them.”  
  
“ _Captain_ Douglas Richardson,” said Douglas, in his best welcome-video melted-chocolate baritone. “And yours? In case they ask for a reference? I'm afraid I don't have my reading glasses with me,” he admitted at the waiter's surprised glance towards the lanyard-borne name-badge.  
  
“Carry, sir – spelt like the verb. Carry Valet.”  
  
“Very appropriate.”  
  
“Yes, sir, I thought so too.”  
  
With a final, smiling glance, Carry took hold of the cleaners' trolley and slipped back into the kitchen.  
  
Douglas was rudely jolted out of his reverie by Martin, now fully recovered and launching into the story behind the Crieff family ban on gifts of toasters. This was a long and involved tale, which would probably have been much improved by a teller sufficiently sober (and a sufficiently skilled orator) to recall the events in the right order and enunciate all the names (whether Cousins Laura, Lorna, Laurence and Paul were the same person, and their actual name if so, remained unclear). All that Douglas could ascertain was that an engaged couple had apparently received the same toaster seven times, having returned it to the shop for an exchange each time.  
  
“Oh, for heavens' sake, all this silly talk of wedding nonsense is making me nauseous!” snapped Carolyn, whose own blood alcohol content had evidently been converted to acetaldehyde by now. “Let's get a move on, I need to post this stupid paperwork before the last collection.”  
  
“Herc, did you get the paperwork for _me_ yet?” Arthur asked.  
  
“Yes, Arthur. I'll give you a hand with it later, while your mother's sleeping off this wine.”  
  
“Brilliant!”  
  
“ _What_ paperwork? Don't tell me sneaky scheming is contagious, you insufferable boys.”  
  
Herc smiled fondly, as Arthur explained, “Well, I need different paperwork from you to change _my_ surname, and I need to change my surname because otherwise how will people know I'm your son? And I didn't tell you before now in case you didn't change yours after all.”  
  
“ _Arthur_ , you _really_ don't need to -”  
  
“I do, though. Otherwise it'll just get confusing.”  
  
As the debate meandered back and forth, Herc tore himself away for a moment to pay the bill, and noticed the sidelong glances between Douglas and their waiter.  
  
“A little young for you, surely, Douglas?” he asked casually, as they helped Martin to his feet.  
  
“You're one to talk, Hercules 'Toyboy' Shipwright. You do realise that, fifty-odd years ago, she'd have been your _babysitter_ ?”  
  
Herc sighed. “Eleven years is no age gap at all by _our_ time of life. Thirty years, however, invariably screams 'mid-life crisis' - _far_ more loudly than _any car_ ,” he added pointedly, but Carolyn was lost in the tangles of Arthurian logic.  
  
Douglas laughed. “Herc, I know the value of rarities. A few hundred years ago, Carry would have ruled half of Europe from behind the scenes. Even one hundred years ago, a great house would have been graced with the perfect butler. It's a crying shame, it really is... and now I have a chance to _associate_ with that sort of mind. I wouldn't give that up for _worlds_ .”  
  
Herc gave up. He himself may not have had room to talk about recognising one's “type”, but Douglas really was the _master_ of picking entirely the wrong people. Douglas _needed_ chaos, as much as he needed air. This would all end in tears...  
Oh well, at least it would make a change from Douglas' usual mistake: the confusion of “a challenge” with “absolutely nothing in common”.  
  
(At this point, Herc's musings were interrupted by Martin being shoved at him, as Douglas firmly wrested away Arthur's car keys.)

 

*******

 

“Hallo, Martin! How was the wedding?”  
  
Martin smiled. Sufficient bandwidth for Skype was yet another great thing about not sharing a house (and being able to afford a laptop with a webcam). “Hi, Theresa! Er, fine, yes, great. I mean, a bit _mad_ , but that's pretty much...”  
  
“To be expected, among such unique people?”  
  
“Yes! Exactly! Although, Arthur seemed a bit brighter than usual, which was kind of _spooky_ in a way, but he was back to normal by the time he made his speech so no need to worry.” Martin gave his best (read: Douglas-esque) wry grin, as practised in the mirror.  
  
Theresa laughed. “I dread to think what the presents were like.”  
  
“Cheese and a weird toast-rack – oh, and Carolyn specially asked me to say thanks from her for your present. She really liked it – I mean, _really_ liked it.”  
  
“She's very welcome, but I hope I didn't overshadow yours?”  
  
“I gave her a _wok_ . Pretty much _anything_ would outdo that, and I knew something would; Arthur and Douglas were _always_ going to manage something...”  
  
“Unpredictable?”  
  
“...Arthur and Douglas _are_ unpredictable, full stop.”  
  
“Douglas mostly isn't, you know. You kind of have to spot the clues, like being a detective.”  
  
“The one and only time I tried being sort of a detective, Douglas completely gave me the run-around. Twice. ”  
  
“Well, _you_ haven't been trained all your life in diplomacy, so that's pretty expected. Anyway, are you still tired from your trip? I wouldn't want to keep you awake -”  
  
“No, no, I'm fine, still within hours, it's all fine. How's Liechtenstein? Has the, um, royal controversy been sorted now?”  
  
“More or less. Maxi is ZSB all half-term, and for the summer if he doesn't buck his ideas up.”  
  
“ZSB?”  
  
“Oh – _zum Schloss beschr_ _ä_ _nkt_ , Confined To Castle. That is to say, grounded.”  
  
“Ah, I see... so, so, um, I'm _really_ sorry you couldn't make it, but, well... I don't know if - I mean, it was a bit clique-y, you might have ended up standing around a lot like at the auction -”  
  
“It's _fine_ , Martin. The Dragon didn't want a big fuss, remember? She'll have been happier with the privacy, just the people who've been there since she met him.”  
  
“Well, yes, that's – that's a good thing, I suppose. For Carolyn, I mean – she's all... _spiky_ about Herc stuff. But if, if there's, well... family and so on – ones you actually _like_ – then really they _should_ come to a wedding even if they only know one of you. I mean, _I_ think so... I don't know if, um...”  
  
“Martin, I have been to an awful lot of very big weddings full of strangers. And I can tell you, it's a pain in the backside. Talking to a roomful of people with nothing in common, keeping them all pleased and happy and not fighting? It's just like work, but more so. Unfortunately, royalty don't get nice little weddings – every nosy parker wants to see, and everyone with over a certain income or landmass has to be invited so they don't get insulted. Sleeping Beauty's parents had it _easy_ .”  
  
Martin laughed nervously. “So, um... I mean, I wasn't trying to – it's only been, what, six months? So no, I – well, you know me, not exactly _spontaneous_ ...” He tailed off with a nervous giggle, shutting up sharply when it started to become a snort. (Douglas had bombarded him with YouTube clips from _The Young Ones_ until he got the message.)  
  
Theresa sighed, but kindly. “Martin, I _know_ you weren't. Neither was I. It's just a subject we're discussing like any other – except maybe aviation. But just for your information, I suspect things will go a lot easier and _smaller_ if we wait until Maxi's reached his majority.”  
  
“Er...”  
  
“Once he's twenty-one, he'll fully assume the throne. Then I'll just be the Princess Royal, not the Princess Regent, and I'll be over forty by then so I'll soon be forgotten as everyone gossips about Maxi's antics.”  
  
“Right... yes. Yes! That, that's... a good plan, a good length of time... and, I, well, it'll look a bit better if I'm – assuming I am, we do, er – anyway, a Captain would sound much better.”  
  
“First Officer is just as impressive to me, Martin. But then, _I_ know what you went through for both titles. You're very brave, really.”  
  
“Hah, er, n-not _that_ brave. More... stubborn.”  
  
“But you're getting good at using that the right way, Martin, and that's a _big_ part of bravery.”  
  
“Pilots need to _adapt_ , though; to adjust to the situation, to _take_ _advice_ .”  
  
“And to keep going, and never give up. You might never do hairpin turns at treetop level over polar bears, but that just means you won't have to explain the screaming over the cabin address. A _really_ good airline pilot is the one who gives such an _easy_ flight that people don't even remember it.”  
  
“...” Martin turned beetroot. “...s-so, how are _your_ flying lessons going?”

**Author's Note:**

> Arthur's analogy about rugs is from “The Ear, The Eye and The Arm” by Nancy Farmer – in which it's actually used in reference to cultural traditions, but it works just as well here. (Arthur probably listened to the audiobook.)
> 
> Orchids are certainly expensive as bouquet flowers, since apparently they don't have the right sort of stems and hence need extra work done to make them suitable.
> 
> Birth certificate “father's occupation”: in 1948, Sir Seretse Khama (Paramount Chief of the BamaNgwato, in what's now Botswana; later the first President of Botswana) married an English woman called Ruth Williams. Since this was 1948, the marriage was... controversial, to say the least. They had to marry quickly and quietly in a register office, and thought it wouldn't go ahead when Seretse's birth certificate appeared to be causing problems – but it turned out that the staff were just confused by the “father's occupation” bit, which indeed stated “tribal chieftain”. (Despite the political trouble, Ruth was very popular with Seretse's subjects – although at first they assumed that he must have married Princess Margaret, the only unmarried English woman ranking anywhere near him!)
> 
> Rubber-band butterfly: http://blog.diy.org/post/41210119730/challenge-of-the-day-create-a-rubber-band 
> 
> WD-40 would probably loosen the jammed bits of the lock, but I don't know for certain.
> 
> Experimental surgery first tested on a lab mouse: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flowers_for_Algernon 
> 
> Arthur still has his horrible old car, because he didn't manage to sell it before the Van was tragically sacrificed to save G-ERTI (it's how Dad Crieff would have wanted it to go, I'm sure...).
> 
> Arthur seems to have muddled up the famous quote “Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole” from the pilot episode of “Supernatural”.
> 
> Douglas is mostly telling the truth about Martin's steak. The Weird Thing is probably some kind of sore, possibly a cyst from a parasite infestation (e.g. toxoplasmosis).
> 
> Lord of Misrule: see Wikipedia.
> 
> “Bueller? Bueller? Bueller?”: see “Ferris Bueller's Day Off”.
> 
> Martin's appearance: he spends most of the series malnourished and doing regular hard physical labour, and Douglas' remark about “shouty little red-faced men with bristly heads” (Ipswich) does seem rather pointed. As for the warts... I've just always pictured him with huge warts on his hands, as you might already have discovered.
> 
> Cornish Yarg: everything Arthur says about it is in fact correct.
> 
> The wok, and the story about the seven toasters, are both shout-outs to “Anastasia: At This Address” by Lois Lowry.
> 
> Toast-rack which spells out TOAST: http://www.selfridges.com/GB/en/cat/culinary-concepts-toast-rack_310-3001053-TOAST/ 
> 
> Comb-bound: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Comb_binding 
> 
> Physical obstacles to the sense of taste: low humidity and changes in air pressure aboard an aeroplane both reduce the sensitivity of tastebuds, hence why most in-flight food tastes dreadful. (Note that Douglas' carp thing tasted delicious mid-flight. THAT'S how good a cook he is.)
> 
> Carry "Valet": is the Cameo Crossover Character (read what's been written so far of Carry's adventures here: http://theoriginalsam.livejournal.com/31119.html Note that “theoriginalsam” is also known as “copperbadge”. Yes, http://archiveofourown.org/users/copperbadge/pseuds/copperbadge.). Carry here is presumably an AU counterpart, since canonical Carry lives several hundred years in the future. On a (human-colonised) planet quite some way away. Which has lost contact with the rest of the galaxy. (Incidentally, Carry doesn't actually have a name during the first two chapters, so I've just slightly spoilered. Sorry!)  
> Carry, canonically, is a trained Valet: kind of a combination of Jeeves, not-Anthea from “Sherlock”, and Andy from “The Devil Wears Prada”. (Nothing to do with Thomas Barrow from “Downton Abbey”.) All Valets are officially agender during active service (for professional reasons), and take great pains to present as such (including surgery, if necessary); alt!Carry here personally defines as agender (please let me know ASAP if there are any mistakes in my depiction – author is not agender).  
> The jobs Douglas is offering are probably lower-ranking versions of not-Anthea, although with some Andy in there too.
> 
> Acetaldehyde: aka ethanal, first product of metabolic breakdown of alcohol. Primary agent of hangovers.
> 
> Name-change paperwork: Carolyn just has to send proof of her marriage to change her surname to Shipwright (“and why go to extra trouble just to hang on to the stupid names of two complete twerps?”), but Arthur needs to change his by deed poll. Yes, he will be changing his middle name too (“because Arthur Gordon Shipwright sounds even more confusing. And really weird.”) - though to what, I haven't decided.


End file.
